


Lowest Prices of the Season

by cognomen



Series: Everything Must Go [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fisting, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese knows that someone is in his rented room - he's  booked up at an extended stay hotel, one room with a kitchen and bathroom all of his own appended. It's become practical, and he keeps several. The feel in this one is wrong, like someone else is breathing the air inside and John almost backs out again and lets the door close behind him, but he can see the dresser arrayed along the front of the bedroom, and the crumpled bills spilled carelessly but obviously over the top of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lowest Prices of the Season

Reese knows that someone is in his rented room - he's booked up at an extended stay hotel, one room with a kitchen and bathroom all of his own appended. It's become practical, and he keeps several. The feel in this one is wrong, like someone else is breathing the air inside and John almost backs out again and lets the door close behind him, but he can see the dresser arrayed along the front of the bedroom, and the crumpled bills spilled carelessly but obviously over the top of it. 

"Hello, _Lionel_ ," he says, and closes the door behind him. It's his signal that the ambush he's walking into is expected. That John won't let either of them get hurt in the scuffle that's about to happen.

He takes his shoes off and measures his breaths, easing his body's reactions into something less tense but more braced, and moves forward into the dark space. Through the kitchen and into the bedroom proper. Lionel is waiting around the corner of wall that the bathroom cuts into the hotel room. John turns as he springs, and they both bowl over toward the bed.

The weight is heavy, angry, huffing. The hands: grappling for purchase, to get control of John's own even as he struggles. It's almost artful - John has the advantage of height, but Fusco hits him with a football tackle, all bony shoulders and committed momentum. He gets one of John's wrists in a lucky wide swipe of hands and they hit the bed with John backwards and halfway onto it, the edge of the mattress forcing his spine to bend and arch their bodies together, awkward.

Fusco is furious.

"I noticed you following me," is what John says, voice calm as Lionel puts hands like vices around John's wrists and pins him in place roughly, even though by now he's gone lax in an effort to save his back from bending further into discomfort.

"Shut up," Fusco snaps, and John feels his mouth moving against the lowest point on his chest.

"I'm not sure if that's the standard NYPD shadowing technique, but if it is -" John trails off as Fusco presses his wrists demonstratively into the mattress.

"Don't move these," Fusco orders, but doesn't try to get John to stop talking again. 

"It needs work."

Lionel yanks John's belt free of the loops after half a minute of inelegant, backwards fumbling. 

"I see you too, you know. When you follow me," Lionel sounds a little defensive.

"Well I wouldn't want you to forget me, Lionel." 

Fusco snorts, looks like he's considering options for John's belt for a moment, before he just throws it onto the floor at the foot of the bed.

"How could I? You're like - what's that word? High maintenance. You're a high maintenance relationship. 

"That's two words, Lionel."

John loses the button his pants for that, Lionel exerting his frustration through a forceful tug on the fabric that rips the criss-cross of threads. It's not quite enough that the button goes flying, just dangles at the end of one long loop of thread, a gesture almost characteristic of Fusco's usual fizzling outbursts.

Lionel yanks John's pants off, but lets them hang sloppily over his shoes, which John kicks off for the sake of completion, and to spare some awkwardness later. He thinks he knows where this is going, anyway. Both forward and back. They'd never done this, not even close, since John had wedged Lionel into a position of unwilling good.

He would always have _that_ advantage. But, the first time they'd met, he'd offered Lionel his own. The money on the dresser - he'd come to collect on the only one he had.

John had wondered if that point would come, and when. That it had taken this long, but still come at some point - John can't decide if he's surprised or not. 

Lionel gets John's shirt off, then seems to hesitate. John is lying still, arched backwards. He realizes that Lionel is actually worried about consent. That he's forgotten about his order regarding John's hands already.

"You still do this?" Lionel asks, low and huffing breath as he puts wide hands on John's bare chest and pushes _down_ , makes John feel the mattress.

"At all? Or for money?" John challenges. He curls his fingers, but doesn't move his hands.

Fusco doesn't laugh, but he looks serious. Looks angry and passionate about it. Looks like the only way to express this was just - _this_. What this was about to be. John looks over at the crumpled money, licks his lips, and then answers. "Yes."

It's permission for this to be - well, what it is. What it probably will be even though John knows this is not the best precedent to set. He reassures himself that if it gets out of hand, he can deal with it. That this is probably the safest way for them to both self destruct a little.

That they both _need_ to. 

Lionel touches the waistband of John's underwear first, then takes a deep breath.

"Do you want me to talk you through it?" John goads, but he's half serious and Lionel's fingers tighten on the elastic and yank.

"Shut the fuck up," he says, pulling, but it's not an order. Fusco doesn't put a hand on John until it's skin on skin, and then it's rough, insistent. Almost forceful and John's body responds _then_ \- his cock hardening quickly when it seems like there's not going to be any denying this.

It's rough, but Lionel's palms are dry and confident, he's not looking away but right _at_ what he's doing, down at the contrast between his pale hand and flushed reddening skin. 

"Somehow I knew you'd like it a little forceful," Lionel almost-jeers, pulling and stroking until John lifts his hips in encouragement. Because he wants to, and Fusco wants him to. Wants to know even while he's in the illusion of control that John still wants this. It's not much of a lie, what John gives him in response. John wants there to be no lie at all, wants to eventually get to a point where Fusco' s confidence will let him push that hard. It's instinct, that he wants this much forcefulness, and John should know how to push past those by now. So he tells himself he just doesn't _want_ to. 

"I like it how you like it," John answers, then. "There's lubricant-"

But Fusco has that figured out. He'd _planned_ and John has a moment of pride to see that small, clear bottle appear from the depths of a sports coat pocket. That and three interconnected condom packets, like the kind they over-charged you for in a men's room. 

"I brought it," Lionel explains, somewhere between ferocity and lameness.

"Didn't want to hit any road blocks?" John purrs, and Lionel squeezes him tighter. "Good."

"Get up on the goddamn bed."

John makes a brief acquiescing motion with his head, lifts himself the rest of the way onto the hotel mattress. Then he takes advantage of the implied allowance with his hands and undoes Lionel's button, zipper - begins to negotiate the belt. 

"Get off that," Fusco says, swatting his hands away. He shoves John by the shoulders, and John resists for a moment to show that he _can_ before he relents and lays back.

Lionel isn't done dictating his position, and his hands twist John from the hips until he rolls over face down and clutching the covers, vision full of the hotel patterned comforter and ears listening to the click of a cap opening, the swearing and loose-air sound as the bottle likely disgorges more of its contents onto Lionel's hands than he'd intended.

John hears him drop the bottle and he doesn't brace exactly, but he gets ready. Lionel touches John's erection first, reaching through under his hips to slick excessive lube onto John's cock, until the sensation is almost a tease. It's too slick and sliding to give anything like enough friction, and John feels more than hears his own growl, and Fusco's satisfied answering chuckle.

"Yeah? Not getting anywhere?" He opens his fingers and slides his hand backwards, through John's thighs, over his balls briefly and then pressing up behind them in a line with two fingers. "Now you know how _I_ feel."

Lionel doesn't hesitate to push into John. Somehow he assumes, or knows, or guesses that he's not out of practice or unused to it, and John bears down with his body, his mind, and then relaxes and takes those slicked fingers deep, to the knuckles, as Lionel makes a choked and ready sound to convey how much he wants that.

"Jesus," he says, and then - because he feels the need to yank the wonder and longing out of his own tone he adds savagely, "A _professional_ , huh?" 

"You could fuck me now, Lionel," John suggests, and a weight settles first on the bed behind him, then over John's back and John rounds his shoulders to take it as Lionel pins him.

"What's the rush?" Fusco asks, scissoring and twisting his fingers, adding another abruptly and making a low, wordless noise as John stretches for him. "You got another appointment?"

Fusco's voice - his _mouth_ \- is pushed in along the back of John's neck somewhere, and he withdraws his touch, his hands, and twists and pulls John's hips up toward his own, until John's back is arched. Until his body is in the most desperate and begging-wanton of poses, and he has to grit his teeth and fight his urge to seize the advantage back. Lionel doesn't let his weight off of John for an instant, lets him take it because John _can_.

"You'll really do this?" Fusco asks, once he's got John up, moving behind him, shifting his knees in between John's parted ones. His hands are doing something, too. The condom, John thinks. "Just because I put money down?"

John doesn't look up or try to look back, but he's sure Lionel sees his nod, comprehends it.

"What if I put money over there," Lionel begins, and then guides himself in. Not slow, but not rough either. Just frustratingly overslick and stretching, but barely letting John feel anything but that. Too much lubricant and - maybe on _purpose_. "And told you to leave me the fuck alone." 

John arches further, seeking something - _anything_ to make this feel like it's happening. Some kind of sensation. Lionel snaps his hips forward sharply, still pressed in a long line over John's back and he feels that, at least.

"Won't work," John says. Lionel's too busy to answer - he goes steady, quick, but never gets too rough. He's panting and pushing hot air against the nape of John's neck in wide stripes as he reaches below them and traps John's half hard cock up against his stomach with the flat of his palm. Every so often the sparks go off behind John's eyelids where he's closed them against his crossed forearms, but it never _builds_ , it's never enough. Even when he feels Lionel's rhythm go sloppy and desperate and the man finally gets the idea to close his teeth over John's skin where they rest at the back of his neck, and that almost, _almost_ makes John feel it, but not enough before Lionel groans breathily, repeatedly, short sounds like gunfire.

The weight lifts off of John's back and he feels his ribs begin to uncompress. He takes a deep breath, feeling worn and frustrated, but like he deserves both of those things. He's ready and he _knows_ nothing will come of it, but his heartbeat is fast anyway, his cock still aching to be touched again, and trying to rationalize himself out of it. He hears the condom hit the bottom of the wastebasket and lets himself sag down flat.

"Don't you fucking move," Lionel says, and the bed dips as he gets back onto it. "You ain't done."

John actually looks back at him for that one. 

"Yeah, I know. I'm too nice of a fucking guy," Lionel says, and then his fingers - four of them at once, are pressing into John. "But I'm guessing maybe you understand how I feel already. This - leaving it _right here_..."

John feels it _now_ , as Lionel folds his thumb flat to his palm and the hard lump of knuckle resists entering, forces him open wide to accommodate, and air suddenly becomes difficult to find.

"Won't change shit except maybe make this impossible again in the future. I thought about it, though."

And then he's in up to the wrist, leaving John holding the comforter, unable to quite move yet, so Lionel moves for him, pushing in small, jerky increments that test his range of motion in just the right way. John twists himself to help guide, pushes backwards into it.

"Jeez," Lionel whispers, and then lifts a handful of covers in his other hand, curling it and his fingers around John's cock and letting him thrust into it, and _that's_ it. That's enough, no more maddening, deadening feeling of being too insulated to feel anything. John comes hard, pushing into it where it rushes from the top of his spine and _down_ in hot, electric sensation that leaves him pulling air and dizzy from hyperventilation.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd maybe get rid of those pictures," Lionel says, getting up off the bed and leaving a messy, affectionate stripe of slick where his hand pats over John's tailbone in vague, rough affection. "You don't need them."

And then he goes, before John can gather his sharpness into a reply.

-End


End file.
